


Pilgrim Soul

by Dannell Lites Archivist (offpanel_archivist)



Category: Preacher (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-28
Updated: 2000-04-28
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:11:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offpanel_archivist/pseuds/Dannell%20Lites%20Archivist
Summary: A Preacher tale.





	Pilgrim Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Dannell Lites, who passed away in 2002, with the permission of her family. Posting date approximate.
> 
> \--
> 
> SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!
> 
> Ah don't own Jesse Custer, the Saint of Killers, Cassidy, Tulip, God or  
> Genesis nor any of that crowd! (Thank the Maker!) DC/Vertigo Comics  
> does! Prolly Garth Ennis has a hand in it, too:):) No money is being  
> made (consarn it!) and no infringement of copy right is intended. If'n  
> ya'll sue moi Jesse will be right *peeved*... And ya'll do *not* want  
> that to happen. He's likely to use The Word on ya'll and then ya'll  
> will have to do what he says... And did Ah forget to say that Jesse   
> is a mean cuss? Not to mention *imaginative*? He left one poor sod  
> counting every last grain of sand on a beach and when he told Arseface's  
> Daddy to "go fuck yourself"... he did... Otherwise Jesse is just a  
> good ol' southern Texas preacher boy :):)
> 
> As for continuity... *sigh* Along with most of the rest of moi's  
> stories it doesn't exist heah:):) Ah began this fic some time ago and  
> Ah am sure by the time Ah am done with it, it will be passe in terms of  
> what will happen in the actual comic! THIS is moi's idea of what  
> *should* happen! Just think of it as an AU and ya'll will be a lot  
> happier:):) Hee!
> 
> Let moi state for the record right heah that Ah have not read the last  
> six or so issues of "Preacher". Nor will Ah read them or any others  
> issues until the story is all complete. Other than the title of this  
> last story arc -- "Alamo" -- Ah have no knowledge of what is transpiring  
> in the books. For this fic Ah have simply taken speculation on moi's  
> part and the part of some other Preacher fans and given them voice.
> 
> This story is rated R for VERY foul language, gruesome violence, and  
> most especially what are probably some REALLY, REALLY, offensive semi  
> religious themes! If'n ya'll are easily offended by anything like that  
> then... skedaddle! Vamoose! Ah mean it! Ya'll *have* been warned!  
> Ah'm going straight to Hell for this one:):) But then, Ah'm not too  
> worried. All moi's friends will be there... not to mention Garth Ennis  
> right along beside moi:):) Howdy Garth, Sugah:):)

Pilgrim Soul  
By: Dannell Lites

How many loved your moment of glad grace?  
And loved your beauty with love false or true;  
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.  
"When You Are Old"  
William Butler Yeats

"If there is a God, then He is a malign thug."  
Samuel Langhorn Clemens (AKA Mark Twain)

In the Southern part of Texas,  
near the town of San Antone,  
stands a fortress all in ruins that  
the weeds have overgrown.  
You may look in vain for crosses  
and you'll never see a one.  
But sometimes between the setting  
and the rising of the sun,  
you can hear a ghostly bugle  
as the men go marching by.  
You can hear 'em as they answer  
to that roll call in the sky:  
Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett  
and a hundred eighty more.  
Captain Dickenson, Jim Bowie,  
present and accounted for.

excerpted from the song: "Ballad of the Alamo"  
By Paul Francis Webster

"You got something to say, Pilgrim?" demanded the ghost of John Wayne.  
"Spit it out."

"Naw," said Jesse Custer.

"You ain't much of a liar, son," returned The Duke.

Jesse stiff armed the shot of whiskey in his hand and rested his boot  
heels on his untidy desk. Being Sheriff of Salvation, Texas had some  
advantages, after all. Not many. But wasn't nobody gonna yell at him  
for putting his feet up on his own desk, by God. Considering what was  
about to happen, he almost laughed at that last.

"Naw," replied Jesse, "never was much of a one for prevarication. Never  
any damned good at it. Not like you and that's a fact... *Pilgrim*."

The ghost of John Wayne eased his Stetson back on his head with a finger  
and lit a cigarette. Jesse joined him after a moment, blowing smoke  
rings that wafted through the stale air of the tiny Sheriff's office.

"Those things'll kill ya," Jesse grinned.

Wayne grinned back. "They did, son, they did."

Jesse snorted.

"Best get that burr out from under your saddle right now, son. 'Fore it  
festers," Jesse's life-long companion advised.

Jesse had to grin at that. "'Son'..." he reflected, "now that's  
fucking funny, ain't it? Especially after it come to me that you're  
not, never have been, my Daddy. Been talking to you most of my life and  
I just now figured out who the hell you are. But, then, I guess most of  
us are your 'Children', right, 'Father'? Or so I used to preach of a  
Sunday."

Jesse burst into good natured laughter. Oh, this was just toooo goddamn  
funny. "Shit!" he thought, "did it again!"

He could almost hear Cassidy's mellow Irish tones. "Now wouldn't that  
make yeh laugh yeh wankin' bollicks off all the way to Hell and back?"

"Never claimed to be your Daddy," John Wayne replied, defensively.  
Jesse's grin broadened. "Got the son of a bitch on the run!" came his  
exultant thought. Jesse poured himself another shot of Wild Turkey in  
celebration.

"Naw," Jesse admitted, chugging his drink. Damn he hated the taste of  
whiskey. Shit was only good for one thing. "Can't recollect that you  
have. Slick. Real slick. Slicker'n a minnow swimmin' in a dipper."  
He saluted the ghost with his once again full glass. But the ghost of  
John Wayne was gone when he looked up again.

"Jaysis, Jess, yeh've got to get a better hobby, old son."

Jesse blinked. For a moment he imagined that he was hearing things; an  
alcohol induced hallucination.. Sure wouldn't be the first one. Not by  
a long damn shot. But when Cassidy slumped bonelessly into the chair in  
front of his desk Jesse decide he was real. Jesse also decided he was  
pissed as hell.

"What the fuck are *you* doing here?" he demanded of the Irish vampire.  
Cassidy lowered his head.

"Jess... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he blurted in a rush. "Yeh  
don't know how sorry! I'm a wanker! I'm the biggest wanker in the  
entire world! I - I can explain."(1)

Jesse's eye narrowed.

"Explain *what*, Cass? Why you made a pass at my gal Tulip the minute  
my back was turned? Or maybe why you fucked her and sent her straight  
to hell? Love to hear it." Slowly, Jesse took out the Magnum handgun  
in his desk drawer and laid it on top of the desk in plain sight between  
the two of them, a silent threat. Cassidy's head sank lower still.

"Put the fookin' gun away, Jess," he said quietly. "Won't do yeh any  
bollickin' good and yeh know that."

"Maybe so... maybe no," agreed a reluctant Jesse. He set his teeth.  
"But remember Frankie the Eunuch? Remember Masada? That Lee Enfield  
rifle of his? 'CLACK CLICK,' says Frankie the Eunuch. 'Hear that?  
That's the fuckin' sounda history... CLACK CLICK'... You told me all  
about it when you could talk again. Frankie shot you into little bloody  
pieces, Cass. Buncha times. And you cussin' and shoutin' in the  
biggest single act of profanity since God got his dick caught in a  
zipper." Jesse would have thought that it was impossible for Cassidy to  
pale any further. But it wasn't.

"And who was it hauled your sorry ass outta the line of fire, Cass?  
That was *me*, you son of a bitch. Me. I went in there after you.  
Star and Frankie're both crazier'n a soup sandwich. I coulda been  
killed. But I did it. Because I trusted you. Thought you were my  
friend. That kinda stuff means a lot to me. Don't mean fuck-all to  
you, though, does it? Not jack." Jesse leaned closer until he was  
inches from Cassidy's face. Cassidy looked away.

"And Cass?"

Slowly, like a moth drawn to a flame, Cassidy faced his friend. Jesse's  
one remaining earth brown eye hardened like stone. "Don't *ever* think  
I can't hurt you." For a moment his eye seemed to glow a bright red and  
his voice deepened, roughened ever so slightly.

"Why, you'd do anything for me, wouldn't you, Cass? Anything I said."

Smiling, Cassidy nodded eagerly. "Anything, Jess!" he proclaimed.  
Grinning right back, Jesse let The Word fade. After a moment Cassidy's  
lips curled back over his teeth in anger.

"Jess," he snarled, "that was a fookin' shitty thing to do, now wasn't  
it?"

Jesse passed Cassidy the bottle of Wild Turkey in wordless expiation.  
After a few seconds he sighed heavily, watching Cassidy help himself to  
the proffered liquor. Jesse Custer was careful to keep his face from  
crumpling like wet, tear-stained paper, but he couldn't keep the hurt  
and bewilderment out of his voice. No matter how hard he tried.

"Why, Cass?" he mourned and even in his own ears his voice sounded lost  
and forlorn. Damn, he hated that. "Why? Just tell me *why*." Cassidy  
studied his scuffed, used boots for long moments and sat absolutely  
still in his uncomfortable chair. Still as a rock. Expect for his  
fingers resting in his lap that writhed and twisted like alien things  
beyond his control, tearing at the fabric of his faded jeans and leaving  
many new, small holes in their busy wake.

"I - I *break* things... " he said in a voice that ached with despair  
and confusion. "Never mean to do it, but... can't seem to stop it...  
Buggered is what I am."

Jesse shook his head sadly. "Did you ever try to stop it, Cass?" he  
asked. "Ever really try?"

Cassidy passed the bottle of whiskey back to Jesse's waiting hands and  
said nothing. Which, sure enough answers the damned question, Jesse  
thought, grieving. He remembered telling Tulip that Cassidy was kinda  
like if Brendan Behan fucked Bram Stoker and they let the baby do crack  
all the time. To Cassidy's complete mystification, Jesse smiled at the  
memory. Lot of things like that about Cassidy. Lots of smiles and good  
memories. Then he lost his smile.

Looks like Tulip was closer to the mark, though, he admitted.

So, why do I keep seeing a lost little boy when I look at him? she'd  
asked once.

"Jess," pleaded Cassidy, "I'll do anything to make it right. Anything,  
I swear to yeh. I - I - "

The worst part of the whole mess was that Cassidy was sincere. "He's  
always sincere," Jesse thought sadly. "Always sorry he did it. Don't  
stop him though."

"What can I do?" Cassidy cried. "What do yeh want from me, Jess?"

Jesse stared into the bottle of whiskey he held as if it might supply  
him with an answer. Any answer at all. Shit. Silent as always. If  
nothing else, Annville should have taught him that there were no answers  
there at the bottom of a whisky bottle. Only a nice, safe and  
comfortable hiding place. Sweet oblivion. He turned to face the  
Irishman once more.

"What do I want, Cass?" he asked softly. "What I *want*, Cass, is once,  
just *once* to see you suffer. Like Tulip suffered." Cassidy slumped  
down even further in his chair and looked away sharply.

"Yeh're about a hundred years too late on that one, old son," he  
whispered. Jesse passed the bottle once more back to Cassidy.

"How do you figure, Cass?" he asked. "Just what the hell are you  
lookin' for, anyways?" Cassidy snatched the liquor and took a deep pull  
on it. "And how the fook would I be knowing that, I ask yeh? If I knew  
do yeh think I'd still be searchin' yeh eejit? I - I - don't *know*  
what I'm after... " Cassidy's voice trailed off, leaving much unsaid.  
Jesse waited.

"No," the Irishman said clearly after a moment. "That's a fookin' lie  
and I know that." Cassidy studied his hands for long moments. Then he  
looked up and Jesse was sure if he hadn't been wearing those damned  
sunglasses, he'd have been staring straight into the Texan's eye.

"I want... " he began and then faltered. For a moment Jesse was afraid  
that he'd fall into sullen silence. But he didn't. "I want what *you*  
have," he finished in a stronger voice. Jesse's jaw set itself like  
rock.

"Tulip?" he demanded.

Cassidy seemed to explode in anger. "No, yeh wankin' sod!" he shouted.  
"If I was only after a piece of arse, yeh think I couldn't find a safer  
one? Bleedin' Christ, if I couldn't! No!" He seemed to shrink into  
the chair again, burying his hands in his armpits, perhaps to still  
their shaking. "I want someone to feel about me the way she feels about  
you. Bollicked everything up, I did."

Jesse drew a deep breath and studied Cassidy. Lost right enough. And  
it was hard to think of a man born with the century as a boy... but it  
sure did fit, didn't it? Like a damned Trojan rubber, Jesse  
acknowledged. Quickly, Jesse killed the bottle of Wild Turkey, replaced  
the Magnum in his desk drawer, and cracked another bottle of liquor.

"Never did tell me why you came here, Cass," he reminded the Irishman,  
gently. "Why'd you do that?"

"I'm a fookin' eejit, is why!" Cassidy cursed.

"Well, yeah," Jesse smiled, "but other than that?"

Cassidy smiled back. "I don't... " Cassidy stammered. "That is to say  
.. I mean... "

Jesse watched as Cassidy slammed the bottle down on the rickety desk so  
hard that he was sure either the desk itself or perhaps the bottle were  
in severe danger of disintegrating from the force of the blow. It was  
easy to forget how damned *strong* Cassidy was. After all, Cassidy  
himself forgot that all the time. Much *too* often.

"Curse yeh, Jesse Custer," Cassidy swore, "it's all yeh're fault.  
Never was burdened by a conscience before yeh came into me life!" The  
Irishman quieted after a moment. "It's - it's all comin' to an end  
soon, isn't it?" he said softly. It wasn't a question. He looked down  
at his hands with all their great strength and still his fear and  
helplessness shone on his face. "I promised yeh I'd see this thing  
through, Jess. That I'd stand by yeh. I - I can't leave yeh alone.  
Not and live with meself." The vampire made a face and ran unsteady  
fingers through his sandy brown hair. "Or whatever the hell it is I'm  
doing, now."

"So you came back for me?" Jesse asked, smiling once more. "Cause it  
was the right thing to do?"

"Bollicks the 'right thing to do'!" Cassidy sneered. "Wouldn't know the  
'right thing to do' from an arsehole! I - I - " Jesse looked at him,  
hard.

"Yeah," said Cassidy in a small voice. "And why else would I be doing  
something this foolish, would yeh tell me? Don't believe in God. Never  
did. And neither do you."

Jesse frowned. "What makes you say that, Cass?" Jesse asked mildly.  
"The hell I don't believe in God. I've met the son of a bitch face to  
face. Him and that pack of goat rapists call themselves Angels. The  
spirit that gave me this power of The Word, that Genesis thing, was the  
offspring of miscegenation 'tween an Angel and a Demon. It knew all  
about God. And since Genesis is a part of me now, so do I. That's how  
I know God packed up and left Heaven soon as he knew about Genesis. And  
we all been suffering for it ever since. But... not... not much longer  
now, I figure. Think I fucked up pretty bad just before you got here,  
Cass." Jesse's sorrowful look twisted Cassidy's stomach into a hard knot.

"How yeh figure that?" he wanted to know. Jesse smashed a half smoked  
Marlboro cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on his desk, then lit  
another almost immediately. The Texan inhaled deeply.

"Told the bastard I was on to him. That I had it figured out. Who he  
was. I know where to find him, now. He ain't gonna sit still for that;  
not for long." Jesse shook his head and bit his lip. "I ought not to  
drink, Cass. Liquor makes a man do stupid things. Ought to have  
remembered that from back in Annville. Fucked up real bad. In fact - "

In the blink of an eye, the two men found themselves sitting down on the  
ground hard enough to jar their spines, no longer supported by chairs.  
The chill night air smote them like a blow and the stars twinkled down  
on them from a vast uncovered night sky overhead.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," whispered Jesse.

"Bugger the fookin' dog!" Cassidy cried, pulling himself agilely to his  
feet. "What the hell was *that*?" he demanded.

"That was God," said Jesse. "Told you I fucked up. I think it's time.  
He's done running now he knows he can't hide any more. 'Spect he'll be  
along in a while."

Beneath his breath Cassidy cursed. "Where the hell are we? What is  
this place?"

Ignoring him, Jesse looked around for a second or two and then burst out  
laughing; and laughing and laughing as he took in their surroundings  
with a shock of recognition. He couldn't seem to stop laughing.  
Unceremoniously, he fell back onto his backside and laughed so hard  
tears leaked from his one good eye. Jesus Christ, the irony, the irony...

"Yeh mind letting me in on the joke here?" Cassidy said, impatiently.

Jesse scrambled to his feet still chuckling dark mirth. He threw his  
hands up and waved them at the sky. "All right, you son of a bitch!" he  
called. "This is as good a place as any, I guess. Better'n most. You  
got style and that's a fact!" He turned to Cassidy.

"You really don't know this place do you?" he said. Cassidy's only reply  
was a growl. Smiling like a sunny Summer day, Jesse Custer pointed to a  
sign brilliantly lit by a bright spotlight. Cassidy frowned for a  
moment in confusion and then his jaw dropped and he gasped as he  
recognized the name emblazoned there. Jesse nodded, still smiling.

"Welcome to the Alamo," said Jesse.

*****************************************************************************

"Take off that damned hat, Cass," Jesse instructed in a fierce voice.  
"This is a goddamned Holy place." Jesse glared at Cassidy. "Fucking  
Shrine of Liberty," Jess swore. "Didn't you read the sign over the  
entrance, for God's sake? And on top of that it's a fucking consecrated  
church." He glared at Cassidy once more. "Take off the hat, Cass.  
Now."

With a quick hand Cassidy swept the cap from off his disheveled head.

Climbing the worn adobe steps to the top of the entrance wall, Jesse made  
himself comfortable and lit a cigarette just as Cassidy seated himself at  
his side without a word. Jesse stared at his father's Zippo lighter for  
a moment, engraved with the blazon of the First Marine Division, feeling  
the warm metal soothe his chill hands.

"Hey, Daddy," he whispered, "you watching? Hope so."

"I need a fookin' drink," declared Cassidy. "I don't suppose...?"

From the corner of his eye, Jesse watched the bright moonlight glint off  
something smooth and grinned. With one hand he reached and carefully  
extracted the full, unbreached bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label from  
its rocky hiding place behind an unnoticed crevice.

"Here you go," he said and passed the bottle to Cassidy. Joyously, the  
Irishman snatched the liquor from his friend's hand.

"There *is* a God!" Cassidy cried.

Jesse smirked. "Told you," he chuckled.

"I was joking, yeh witless cracker!"

"I wasn't," the former preacher said.

Neither of them were ever certain how long they sat there in  
companionable silence, drinking and smoking, not a single word passing  
between them. Jesse thought that it was probably a long time. Not that  
it mattered a damn. Not now. Still, he told himself, it was nice to  
spend time with a good friend. He was strangely content. Time passed  
and the night was chill and the sky was beautiful. It was Cassidy who  
finally broke the silence, of course.

"Jess, this is crazy." Cassidy sighed. "But yeh know that, I'm  
guessin'... "

"Yup," said Jesse Custer. He passed the bottle of Jack Daniels back to  
his friend with a steady hand. Fastidiously, Cassidy wiped the rim on his  
grimy sleeve before taking a long pull at the liquor. He smacked his thin  
lips in contentment.

"At least we've got some decent booze this time."

"Yup," said Jesse. Cassidy passed the bottle back to his friend.

"Jess, yeh're bein' an arsehole." Jesse's smile broadened and he leaned  
against the adobe of the wall at his back.

"Yup," he replied with relish and took his own drag on the rapidly  
emptying bottle.

"Yeh're drunk, too," Cassidy observed.

"Yu - " Cassidy's frowning snarl quelled his mellow playfulness.

Jesse nodded, sagely. "It's been known," he agreed.

Cassidy shook his head in mystification. "I mean, *look* at this Jess  
... Here we are hidin' snug in the middle o' one of yeh're national  
monuments, freezin' our bleedin' bollicks off, gettin' drunker'n a couple  
of mud platties swimming downstream of a Guinness brewery... waitin' for  
Godot - er - that is to say *God* - to show up and blow our arses into  
the Hereafter... " Cassidy took another swig to steady his nerves and  
grunted.

"'Bout says it, " Jesse agreed.

"I'm not supposin' yeh've anything like a plan here, right?" Cassidy  
inquired without much hope.

"Oh, got me a Plan, all right. Right as rain," Jesse smiled. Reaching  
into his back jeans pocket he brought forth a small, white object that  
gleamed in the starlight for the other man's inspection.

"Know what this is?"

"The main sprocket off a ten gear wanking machine?" Cassidy guessed.

"It's a bone, Cass. A damned bone. A right special bone. Dug it up in  
a town name of Ratwater, Texas."

Jesse reached up and loosened the tight hold of the clerical collar  
around his neck. Damned thing was choking him. As always. Hated the  
son of a bitching thing since first I put it on, kicking and screaming  
in Annville, he thought. Seems like forever ago, now. But, I'll be  
wearing it 'til this is done. Only right, somehow. He reached up and  
adjusted the eye patch covering his left eye, reflexively. Lord, he said  
silently, we're fixin' to find out which one of us sees clearest. He  
stroked the tiny bone in his hand.

"It's a finger bone, my friend," he continued conversationally.

Cassidy grimaced. "Jaysis, Jess! What would yeh be wantin' with a thing  
like that?"

"Them Angels... the ones in that Vegas casino told me what to do." He  
held up the bone again for Cassidy to see. "Surest way to call the Saint  
of Killers, they said, is to disturb his bones. And *this* - " Jesse  
twirled the bone in admiration, "is the middle joint off his trigger  
finger. Gonna have us some firepower soon, Cass. See if we don't."

Cassidy gagged on his booze. "Bleedin' Christ!" the Irishman cried.  
"Jess, he'll blast yeh're guts all over the fookin' walls! Kill yeh  
without a second thought." His hand shook as he pointed at the bone  
still in Jesse's hand. "Get rid o' that thing!" He looked about in  
fear. "We've got to get outta here, mate." He reached for Jesse's hand  
but the Texan shrugged him off.

"Can't do it, Cass," Jesse said almost sorrowfully. "Gotta see this  
thing to the end."

He could almost hear his mother's voice, then. "Just like your father,"  
she said with deep fear and affection. "Livin' a damned western."

Jesse grinned at Cassidy. "Maybe he'll gun me... maybe he won't. Maybe  
I'll give him a better target. What with his family dying like they did  
and all, the son of a bitch is almost as pissed at God as I am. 'No  
wound given by his guns will be anything but fatal... ' Ain't decided,  
yet. When the time's right I'll know what to do..." Cassidy stared.  
If Jesse noticed the slowly spreading stain at the crotch of Cassidy's  
torn and battered jeans he did not mention it.

"Yeh don't think small, do yeh?" he asked weakly.

"Can't," Jesse replied. "Not when you're calling the Almighty to account  
for abandoning Heaven and leaving us all in this fucking mess. And  
somebody's got to do it. Might as well be me." For long still moments,  
Jesse Custer stared out over the vista laid before him from the walls of  
the Alamo.

"'Sides," he pointed out with a wistful smile, "wouldn't be the first  
time these walls bled." He inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp cold air  
as if it were different here in this place; as if it were sweeter, more  
invigorating. He closed his eyes.

"Smell that?" he asked the confused, frowning Cassidy. "That's the smell  
of freedom. Blood and freedom. They smell an awful lot alike. Can't  
mostly have one without the other. Pretty soon we're all gonna be  
free... one way or the other."

Cassidy hung his head and let the memories come.

Dublin. Easter weekend, 1916. Thousands of Irish folk of all  
descriptions took to the streets, brandishing work implements, knives,  
anything they could find, clamoring for freedom, men, women, children.  
Including a passionate young man named Proinsais Cassidy. But the  
British had guns, of course. Lots of guns. Most of the Irish dissidents  
died. Including a passionate young man named Proinsais Cassidy.

"Stupid wanking sod," thought Cassidy through grinding, clenched teeth.

"Look at that sky." Jesse pointed up at the full moon shining bright  
above them. "See that? Down Texas way we still call that a 'Comanche  
Moon' 'cause it gives enough light to see and raid by. Nothing quite like  
a night sky in Texas." He patted the adobe wall he sat upon, then  
straightened and stood up, almost empty bottle of JD still dangling from  
his clutching hands.

"Right here. Mision San Antonio de Valero. The Alamo. Not too much  
later than this is when the final assault started. In the early morning  
hours. Sixth of March, 1836." Jesse gestured to the north taking in the  
modern day Alamo Plaza and beyond. A few early, early morning drivers  
sped by on their busy way, car engines humming forlornly in the lifting  
darkness.

"Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana marched five thousand Mexican soldiers down  
from the north over there. Had the damned place all but surrounded. The  
band struck up a tune called "De Guello". Speak Spanish, Cass?" The  
Irishman shook his head wordlessly. "Means 'The Rooster', 'cause that's  
where it comes from; cockfights, 'cause of the way game birds fight; to  
the death. Means 'no quarter asked or given'... means 'I'm coming for  
your ass'... "

Under his breath Jesse Custer began to hum and Cassidy listened for  
several moments. The tune was eerie and sibilant, in a high minor key  
that grated on the nerves. The shiver that ran down Cassidy's spine had  
little to do with the cold of the early morning air. Jesse pointed  
across Houston Street.

"Right over there," Jesse continued, "inside the San Antonio Federal  
Building, now, is where William Barrett Travis, the head honcho, bought  
the farm. Back in 18 and 36 that was the north wall. And when the  
Mexican Army came swarming over that wall like locusts on a wheat field,  
Travis was there. His slave Joe was with him and since Joe was one of  
the few survivors we know for damned sure what happened to Travis. Santa  
Ana thought it was damned fucking magnanimous of himself to spare a black  
slave. Symbolic as hell." Jesse turned for a moment to the inner  
courtyard and pointed again.

"In the Long Barracks, there, is where it's almost sure'r'n shit Jim  
Bowie died. Bayoneted in his sickbed in his own room after the Mexicans  
overran the yard. Some kinda fever laid him up. He was a sick and dying  
man when he got here... and he sure didn't get any better, did he?"  
Cassidy looked away.

"Nobody's real certain what the fuck happened to Davy Crockett," Jesse  
mourned, gesturing to the west. "The Alcalde of San Antonio swears he  
saw him over by the west wall there." Once more the former minister and  
Texan faced the Alamo's inner courtyard. "After Captain Dickinson's wife  
Susanna was spared and escorted from the battlefield, she swore that she  
saw him over by the church yonder. Rumors sprang up almost before the  
fucking dust settled that Ol' Davy was one of a select group of defenders  
captured and ordered executed by Santa Ana himself. Me, I don't believe  
it. Just the Mexicans talkin' big. They wouldn'ta known Crockett from  
Adam. Just tryin' to scare people. That's what the Alamo was all about  
in the first damned place. Bein' brutal and tryin' to get Texians (2) to  
haul ass." Jesse grunted. "Didn't work for shit." Cassidy grabbed the  
bottle from Jesse's hands and swallowed deeply.

"Where the fook did yeh learn all this shite, Jess?" he demanded in a  
strained voice.

"Hell, Cass, every school child ever born in the state of Texas knows all  
about this place." Jesse nodded to himself and ground his Marlboro out  
beneath his heel. For an instant he stroked the adobe wall like a lover.  
"This is the Alamo, Cass... there's sure as hell worse places to die..."  
Jesse smiled and lay his hand lightly on Cassidy's shoulder.

"And worse people to do it with," he said softly.

Cassidy gathered him in for a startling embrace that was so tight, so  
needy, that it almost drove the Texan's breath from his lungs.

"Fookin' hell, Jess," Cassidy whispered, mourning something that had  
never been a part of his world before he meet the Reverend Jesse Custer.  
"What's it all *mean*?" he wondered. "What was it all *for*?"

"This?" Jesse's gesture encompassed the whole of the Alamo monument and  
perhaps beyond. "Don't mean shit, Cass. And it was mostly for nothing.  
That bastard Sam Houston knew *exactly* what he was doing: sacrificing  
the defenders of the Alamo. It was supposed to buy time for Houston to  
gather more troops and dicker with the US government for help. But that  
didn't happen. But... to the hundred eighty nine men from over twenty  
fuckin' countries who died here, it meant a hell of a lot. It meant  
freedom." Cassidy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He lifted  
the JD bottle in a salute, almost draining it.

"Up the Republic, me old son!" he cried. "And six fookin' choruses of  
'The Rising of the Moon' in yeh're face."

Jesse smiled at Cassidy and settled in to wait. As it happened he didn't  
have to wait long.

He came striding in out of the night, walking right through the front  
gate. Just an ageless man in dusty gray clothes, battered hat shadowing  
his colorless eyes. But the crows feet at their corners were plain  
enough to see. Those and the twin pistols tied down low on his hips.  
Lank gray hair spilled from beneath the brim of his hat and the long  
black duster he wore flowed behind him, snapping in a breeze that only he  
could feel. Silently he climbed the steps and stood tall at the top.

"Been wondering when you'd show your ugly face," Jesse grunted,  
scratching his stubbled cheek.

"Preacher," said the Saint of Killers in a deep, chill voice like Winter  
wind blowing through a deserted, neglected graveyard, "you'd best be  
sayin' your prayers to God and Sonny Jesus, 'cause I'm here to kill you  
sure as Hell." Before he could stop himself Cassidy leapt up.

"Wait! Wait!" the Irishman cried. "Can't we talk about this? I mean  
... " The Saint glanced at Cassidy, looking him over with hard contempt.  
His hand rested easily near the twin Walker Colts riding his hips,  
caressing them lovingly.

"Never could abide a coward," he said slowly. "You're next, I reckon,  
mick."

"Here now!" began Cassidy hotly. "No need for that! Yeh bigot wanker!"

"Cass!" Jesse hissed, "You're *not* helping here!"

Cassidy fell numbly back to his seat on the hard adobe and took a long  
pull on the bottle of JD. Stunned, he stared up at Jesse after a moment.

"Did I just say that? Jess, *tell* me I didn't say what I think I did."  
Turning to the Saint of Killers he gulped once, smiled wanly, and offered  
the whiskey bottle with an unsteady hand.

"Drink?" he inquired hopefully. "Have a drink on us?"

The Saint ignored him and Cassidy breathed a sigh of vast relief. Jesse,  
however, was a different story. When the Saint turned once again to him  
he meet that cold, flat gaze as levelly as he could. The frown that  
graced the Saint's features was deep and abiding, rolling across his  
hash, craggy face like thunder.

"What are you and this fool doin' here, Preacher?" Not waiting for an  
answer, he pointed to the bone still clutched in Jesse hand.

"I've killed better men than you for less'n that," he said. "Any reason  
now should be any different?" Jesse Custer took a deep, thoughtful drag  
on his cigarette and studied the Saint of Killers for an endless moment.  
Then he smiled.

"Just how damned mad at the Almighty *are* you?" he asked. "Ready to do  
something about it?" For many moments the only sound that broke the  
silence was Cassidy, swallowing more JD in a great hurry. The Saint's  
eyes narrowed and he leaned almost imperceptibly closer to Jesse who  
stood his ground.

"Keep talkin', Preacher," he said.

*****************************************************************************

"Well bugger me sideways," exclaimed Cassidy, "it's the bleedin'  
cavalry!"

Jesse shot him a forceful look and the Irishman subsided with sudden  
mirth, then just as quickly lost his spreading grin, his tense face  
reflecting his blossoming concern. The figure on the large roan horse  
drew closer, then halted and dismounted, spurs jingling merrily at his  
approach..

"Is that .. ?" Cassidy began and when Jesse nodded curtly, fell silent.

"Howdy, pardner," said John Wayne.

"Cut the crap," snapped Jesse. "Got no time for that, now." He gritted  
his teeth. "And take off that damned coon skin cap! Crockett hadn't  
worn buckskins or that cap for years by the time he died here. He was a  
fucking rich man and a former US Senator by then."

"The movie says different," said The Duke.

"Fornicate the movie!" hissed Jesse. "This ain't no damned movie!"

The Duke smiled. "Glad you noticed," he said.

Cassidy, despite his best efforts, could never quite recall all the  
details, later. He spent considerable time at the task, to his own  
astonishment. It wasn't in his nature to be so given to considering the  
past. He was a creature of the moment and had long since resigned  
himself to that fact. Still...

He saw:

... Jesse Custer open his mouth, his eyes flashing with a tinge of red.  
He definitely recalled noticing not a single ounce of anger or malice in  
that sharp, brown gaze. What he saw there was something entirely  
different. But not unexpected.

Compassion.

And hope.

Cassidy saw:

... "John Wayne" smile and stand perfectly, absolutely still, waiting...  
*knowing*... what had to happen next.

He heard:

... Jesse say clearly to the Saint of Killers, "Shoot." He imagined he  
could even hear the soft slap of flesh on leather and the tiny muffled  
sound of metal against fine, oiled and supple leather as both Walker  
Colt's cleared the ancient gun man's holsters.

And he definfitly heard the shattering, explosive voice of the cold metal  
as it spoke. No doubt about that in the least.

Cassidy heard:

... "John Wayne" say with loving approval, "Ya did good, son. Ya did  
good."

He heard somebody scream. He was pretty sure it was him.

He saw:

Jesse Custer go flying back, as if caught in the teeth of a strong wind  
before he hit the ground hard and lay very still.

After that... things got really, really confusing as far as Cassidy was  
concerned. He was never sure of exactly *what* happened. At least not  
sure enough to talk about it. Not with anyone. There came a great burst  
of brilliant light and... and... *somnething* rose out of Jesse's  
bleeding, dying body and threw itself, shrieking with the strident voice  
of a thousand banshee's at the still, waiting form of "John Wayne". Who  
flung open his arms wide, smiling, to receive it like a lost child.

And then the world flickered, began to dissolve around the edges like  
paint applied with too much enthusiasm dribbling down a wall, and faded  
to stark black.

*****************************************************************************

"J - Jess?"

Cassidy thought that he was awake and conscious, but this definitely  
couldn't be real. No way. "A pint too many, old son," he told himself  
sadly, "and that's a fact." But still the vision persisted.

"It's me all right, Cass," said Jesse Custer, lowering his booted heels  
from the questionable comfort of the top of his rickety desk. From the  
now open window the bright sunlight of Salvation, Texas spilled into the  
room, taking the chill off the early morning air and the stuffiness out  
of the small office.

Cassidy stared. "What the fook - "

Jesse shook his dark head. "Naw... wasn't a dream, Cass. Wasn't any  
kind of a dream. If that's what you're thinking." Jesse reached for the  
bottle of Wild Turkey in his desk drawer before he realized that the two  
of them had already finished it off the night before. Damn. This wasn't  
gonna be easy without alcohol to lubricate the proceedings. Sure enough  
Cassidy almost snarled.

"And would yeh be knowing what I'm thinking, now?" he demanded.

Jesse tried to keep his shit eating grin to a reasonable size. He was  
almost certain he didn't succeed, though he *did* try. "Well, yeah, I  
would. I was just trying to be polite, Cass." He stripped the clerical  
collar from around his neck and stuffed it negligently into his pocket.  
Wouldn't be needing that damned thing anymore. For a moment he  
considered the irony of wearing a symbol of piety to himself and almost  
put it back on.

"Yeh're dead!" Cassidy accused.

Jesse decided to hell with it and beat back a sharp retort. He settled  
on shaking his head. "Naw. Still kickin'. Been AWOL for awhile, it's  
true. But, contrary to popular opinion, I ain't never been dead."

"Double negative," muttered Cassidy, obviously at a loss for words and  
reluctant to admit it.

"Damned straight," smiled Jesse and saluted the Irishman with a suddenly  
full glass of what smelled to Cassidy's keen nose like Jameson's.  
Several seconds passed before Cassidy noticed the equally full glass  
waiting for him, sitting patiently on the table. Quickly, he up ended  
the glass and swallowed hard. When he looked at Jesse again...

That was when Cassidy finally noticed the other man's eyes. No doubt  
about it. Eyes. As in plural. As in *two* of them. He saw Jesse nod,  
once. "If thine right eye offend thee," Jesse quoted with a smile,  
"pluck it out."

"It was yeh're *left* eye, yeh daft Yank," whispered Cassidy.

"Oh yeah," said Jesse. "Son of a bitch. Always did have trouble keeping  
that straight." Jesse smiled. "After all, I figure that if I take the  
damned eye in the first place... I can give it back if I've a mind."

Cassidy's glass replenished itself and he gulped down the fiery whiskey  
gratefully. "So yeh're sayin' yeh're not Jesse," Cassidy mourned in a  
small voice. "That yeh're... " He guzzled more Jameson's.

Jesse looked thoughtful for a moment or so. He leaned forward and  
squeezed Cassidy's cold hand. "Of course it's me, Cass. Jesse Custer. I  
haven't gone anywhere. I'm in here, too. We're all here: me and Genesis  
and... well, you know..."

Wordless, Cassidy gulped down his seemingly endlessly replenishing glass  
of Bushmill's he thought it was this time. God's teeth, but wasn't this  
a turn? When he woke up this evening he was Cassidy... a one hundred  
year old vampire trying to decide if he should face a man he'd grievously  
wronged. Now...

Well, he was *still* a vampire. Still about a hundred years old. But  
now he was a one hundred year old vampire whose best friend was The  
Almighty.

Jaysis.

Jesse nodded. "Speaking of eyes... " he began. For an instant Jesse's  
smile seemed to fill the world and blind him. The vampire stumbled back,  
clutching at his face.

"Jaysis! Me *eyes*!" cried Cassidy, writhing in pain. "Me fookin'  
eyes!"

As if felled by a stout blow, the Irishman slipped to his knees and his  
ever-present sunglasses rattled to the floor and lay there while he  
covered his eyes with his hands. Jesse picked the sunglasses up and  
tossed them causal like onto his desk.

"Won't be needing those cheaters anymore, Cass," he said, helping the  
other man up to his feet. Gently, he pulled Cassidy's hands away from his  
eyes. They were green, he discovered. A deep, bright green. All forty  
fuckin' shades of green, he thought. Had to figure didn't it? Goddamn.

"You got your eyes back, friend," he told Cassidy with a smile. "You  
just be damned sure you see as well with'm as you did without, hear me?  
Else I'll whup your sorry, blood sucking vampire ass from here to Kingdom  
Come, got it?"

Cassidy stared at the other man for a moment, then smiled in return. "Got  
yeh," agreed Cassidy. He cleared his throat, speculatively. "So, where  
to now, mate? I mean, what with yeh bein' the Almighty now, and all... "

Jesse frowned. "Don't rightly know," he admitted. "Reckon I'll have  
to think on that. But one thing's for goddamn sure... Gonna be some  
fuckin' changes around here, PDQ."

Cassidy saluted him with an upraised glass. "May yeh be half an hour  
in Heaven 'fore the bleedin' Devil knows yeh're dead!" Grimacing, he  
swallowed the vile brew that passed for whiskey, the 'Water of Life',  
in these barbaric parts. What happened to the Bushmill's, he wondered?

"Sweet Jaysis," he choked, "Jess, yeh've got to find a better class of  
whiskey now, than this bollicking dog piss. Jaysis."

Jesse grinned evilly. "Ain't no Devil anymore, Cass," he informed his  
friend, gleefully. "The Saint capped the son of a bitch. Or did you  
forget? So Hell is in a hellova fucking mess... so to speak... " He  
regarded Cassidy with a grin, mischief sparkling in his dark eyes.  
"Less'n you want the job..."

Cassidy choked, sputtered, and baptized the whole of Jesse desk with  
Wild Turkey. He blinked rapidly three times.

"Yeh serious, are yeh?"

"As a heart attack," agreed Jesse Custer.

"Shite," whispered Cassidy.

Cassidy still hadn't answered the question when the overhead lights in  
the small office dimmed, blinked, and then went out entirely. Cassidy  
laughed to hear Jesse swear so luridly. "Bit hard to do, that last, even  
for the Almighty... " Cassidy snickered.

"Quincannon's overloaded the power station again," Jesse theorized.  
"Christ."

It was all Cassidy could do to keep from rolling on the floor in mirth.  
"Exactly!" he pointed out, smiling at Jesse.

Who smiled back. Hmmm. What to do? Jesse considered. And then, of  
course, the answer that sprang to his mind was simple. Well, why the  
hell not? Now was probably as good a time as any to get started on this  
God business. Small things first, he decided. He took a deep breath and  
plunged ahead, fearlessly.

"Gimme some damn Light," said Jesse Custer.

And there *was* Light...

The End!

Author's Notes:

(1) And ya'll are NOT mistaken!:):) There are some deliberate quotes in  
heah as an homage!  
Have fun finding them:):)

(2) Nope! Not a typo! Before they were Texans, the residents of the  
Mexican province of  
Chihauhau-Texas were known as Texians:):)


End file.
